


Today, Don't Ask Any Questions

by Kylie Lee (kylielee1000)



Category: Star Trek Enterprise
Genre: M/M, canon AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-19
Updated: 2006-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-02 11:58:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kylielee1000/pseuds/Kylie%20Lee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His world had ended, and then begun, in the space of two hours. Canon AU, 3.08 "Twilight."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Today, Don't Ask Any Questions

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: 2.03 "Minefield," 3.08 "Twilight"
> 
> Beta: wpadmirer and dilly r/babel
> 
> AN: This was written for round 3 of the LJ community [entficathon](http://community.livejournal.com/entficathon/). Written for Bev, who asked for Archer/Reed, first time, with maybe some little kink thrown in.

_Today, don't ask any questions._

He stared down at the scribbled note, then up at the unfamiliar room, utterly confused. He had no idea where he was or how he had gotten here. He stood in his pajama bottoms in the middle of a light-filled bedroom and circled slowly. Where was he? He recognized the artwork on the wall, the polo ball and the framed pictures on the glass shelves, the dark red sheets, the dog bed under the window—although where was Porthos? Everything in the room told him this was his space, but nothing was familiar. They were trying to keep him comfortable...whoever "they" were.

"What the..." He froze as he caught sight of himself in the mirror: a Jonathan Archer with graying hair at his temples and new lines on his face. Old—he'd gotten old overnight. Two quick steps to the mirror, and he could reach out and touch the cold glass. His own long face registered the puzzlement he felt as he touched the image. He turned his head first one way, then the other, noting new lines around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. _Old._ How could it be? He stared down at his hands as though they belonged to someone else. They looked older too, more weathered, with more prominent veins and a small, red, half-healed cut on the back of his right hand that he didn't remember getting.

He clearly wasn't on _Enterprise._ Then where was he? With a last look at the stranger in the mirror, he strode to the round window and peered out. He knew from the way the gravity felt and the lack of persistent vibration that he was on a planet, not a ship. The narrow view out the window confirmed it: a small expanse of scrubby brown, with only a small patch of green at the far edge of his field of view to relieve it. Across the way stood a ramshackle house that looked as if it had been hastily constructed out of spare parts. A town—he was in a settlement or town of some kind, and as he took another look at the walls of his room, he'd bet that the structure that he stood in was also constructed of spare parts, as if builders had cannibalized thundering starships so they could squat in squalor in the gravity well of what was clearly barely a Minshara-class planet.

_What happened?_ The Xindi threat, _Enterprise_'s mission in the Expanse, the tendency of Daniels to drop in and out of time, sometimes taking Archer with him...The prickling between his shoulder blades that said _danger_ and _this is not right, this is absolutely not right_ intensified. Where was he? Had he been kidnapped? Where was his ship? Where was Porthos?

Fighting down panic, he turned from the window, catching sight of the strip of paper he'd tossed back onto the night stand after that first moment of just-awakened confusion. He pulled it through his fingers, feeling its smooth texture. _Today, don't ask any questions._ Next to a blinking clock that announced it was 8:10 in the morning sat a notebook, an old-fashioned pen stuck under the cardboard cover. _No padd?_ Wait. That was a question. Archer gave a mirthless smile as he flipped the notebook open. A bunch of pages had been ripped out of the front of the book, and the top of the first page was torn. He slid the note into place. It fit perfectly. Of course it did—it had been written in this notebook, then ripped out and propped up against the clock, so it was the first thing he saw when he woke up. Underneath the ripped area was another note in the same confident, masculine handwriting.

_Trust T'Pol,_ he read, and under that, in all caps, _YOU'RE SAFE._ Archer uncapped the pen and drew an experimental X across the words. The pen matched exactly, just as he knew it would. He stared down at the crossed-out words, not at all reassured. Trust T'Pol? Of course he trusted her; she was his first officer. Why was that important?

Where was he?

_Today, don't ask any questions._

Why was the question written in his own handwriting?

_You're safe,_ he told himself as he got dressed. He had written a note to reassure himself, just as someone had put his belongings around the room—including Porthos's bed, making Porthos conspicuous by his absence—to evoke a sense of home and security. But if everything was fine, why did it feel so wrong? Why was he _old?_

He could only find civvies, but when he pulled on dark pants and a loose blue shirt, they fit. A quick toss of the clothing revealed that they all were all his size and in colors he favored. His room, his clothes. He cautiously shrugged his shoulders, pulled his arms back, flexed his knees, twisted his back. Except for a twinge or two, he felt fine, exactly the same as he had yesterday, when he'd been captain of the _Enterprise,_ not some confused guy in a room. How had he gotten here? He had no idea. He searched his memory. There had been some kind of anomaly in space. They'd hit it, he remembered that. He remembered the explosion, the bulkhead breaking, a piece falling, T'Pol's leg trapped under it. As the anomaly rushed toward them, she'd told him to leave her, but he hadn't. He'd hefted the impossibly heavy twisted metal, and she'd managed to free her leg. Then—nothing. That was the last thing he remembered until he woke up here.

Shouldn't he have strained his back as he tried to lift the beam?

He felt fine. He felt the same.

He looked old.

He caught another glimpse of himself in the mirror, and he could only wonder how much time had passed.

_Today, don't ask any questions. _If he couldn't ask questions, maybe he could think of answers. He'd been kidnapped by aliens who wished to interrogate him. None of this was real, and he was in a virtual reality suite, held against his will by enemies of Starfleet who wanted information. He'd been abducted by that time-traveling bastard, Daniels, who would appear at any moment and tell him that the world was going to end if Archer didn't commit to some insane mission that would save the day. He'd been given memory-altering drugs as some kind of experiment, and he and—and T'Pol (_trust T'Pol_) had to run a maze like lab rats to get out. Or maybe the anomaly that had collapsed the bulkhead had generated some kind of space-time rift that had pushed him through to here, wherever "here" was. That was a good one—he liked it. Archer mentally moved it to the top of the list.

He needed to get back to _Enterprise,_ because after that kind of incident, and especially with T'Pol injured, a ship needed her captain. He needed to get a damage assessment and put together a repair schedule. Or maybe he'd delegated that to T'Pol for some reason (_Trust T'Pol_). He knew intellectually that he could rely on his people to pull it together if he wasn't around: T'Pol would perform a damage assessment, Trip Tucker would put together the repair schedule, and Hoshi Sato would implement it, just as they'd done a hundred times in the past. It wasn't just T'Pol he could trust; it was all of them.

Archer laughed mirthlessly. He had just a few words to go on, words in his own handwriting scribbled on two scraps of paper, and he had to make them mean something. _Today, don't ask any questions. Trust T'Pol. You're safe._ He ripped out the notebook page, put both notes in a pocket, and ventured out the door. Time to find out what was going on.

It only took a second to survey the entirety of the small house. If he'd had any doubts that it had been made of cannibalized materials, those doubts were put to rest. He recognized the beams that held up the ceiling, the thick substance in the round, porthole-like windows that would keep out the vacuum of space while in a starship but that now served a far more mundane function. It looked as though someone had just stepped out of the small kitchen: a cutting board and a knife lay on the counter; a loaf of uncut bread, loosely wrapped in a bag, stood ready; and a few eggs sat in a cheerful bright blue bowl next to a skillet atop the range. It all seemed so...normal, completely at odds to the apprehension Archer felt.

"Hello?" Archer called. The house remained silent. It felt empty. Someone had to be here. Or did he live alone? No, of course he didn't; he'd found another bedroom, neat but obviously lived in, and it looked like someone was ready to make breakfast. Well, he couldn't wait. He needed answers. _He needed to find his ship._

He stepped outside. The dry ground sent up puffs of dirt as he walked around the house, but as he rounded the corner, he saw an enclave of green. He'd seen a flash of that green from his bedroom window: a raised garden, with rich, black dirt held in by metal girders that bore nothing in common with the dry dust. Archer wasn't much of a gardener, but he knew amended soil when he saw it. Archer doubted anything would grow well in the parched earth here. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make things grow here.

"Hello?" he repeated as he entered the garden area, stepping gingerly onto a paving stone. It looked to be a vegetable garden, and there on the path, as though it had been dropped, lay a basket turned on its side, fresh vegetables cascading out of it, fecund color against the brown of crushed rock and brown dirt. Someone had stepped out to get fresh vegetables for breakfast. And over there—on the ground—

"T'Pol!" he exclaimed as he turned the body over—T'Pol, but not T'Pol. He recognized her face and those ears, but this woman wore her hair long and pulled back. She wore a pair of loose black pants and a pink tunic. If he'd become old overnight, T'Pol hadn't aged a day. Except for the hair, she looked exactly the same as when he'd seen her at this morning's staff meeting, only a few hours ago—when he'd seen her in the corridor, leg trapped under a pile of metal. Yet here he was, on a sere planet, apparently living in a house constructed of junk, his hair gray and his hands old and T'Pol different and everything _wrong._ "T'Pol, are you all right?" His fingers slid across her throat, found a strong, steady pulse: alive.

_Trust T'Pol._

Archer hefted T'Pol into his arms. Although she lay like a dead weight, her head lolling back, she felt light, all skin and bones. He shouldered his way back into the small house, his worry escalating, making him fumble with the door before he got the trick of the way it opened. She had all the answers to the questions he wasn't supposed to ask, he was sure of it, and now, inexplicably, she was unconscious and couldn't answer any of them. It seemed too convenient.

For lack of anywhere better to put her, he set her on the bed of the other bedroom. Of course it was hers—he should have known by the half-melted meditation candles. He sat on the edge of the bed and patted her face, first gently, then more insistently. Her eyelids fluttered, encouraging him, and a moment later, she blinked at him as she tried to focus.

"The pen," she murmured, and when he just stared at her, puzzled, she said, more insistently, "The pen. In the basket. No. Wait. No. In the—the drawer. There. Jonathan, please." She sank back onto the pillow, struggling to breathe.

The pen in the basket? The pen in the drawer? What did she mean?

Why did she call him Jonathan?

_Today, don't ask any questions._

The drawer revealed a jumble of objects: a coin strung on a cord, a lighter for her meditation candles, a small book, a small quilted box, a—there. A medical pen, meant to be used in case of an emergency allergic reaction. "I've got it, T'Pol," Archer muttered. He wasn't familiar with the configuration, but Vulcan writing decorated the side. "Hang on, hang on..." He slapped what was obviously its business end against her hip, and he heard a comforting hiss. Almost immediately, she relaxed, and her breathing eased.

Archer wet a cloth in the bathroom and pressed it against her forehead. He felt almost relieved to have something to do. It kept his mind off the wrongness of everything around him. "Come on, T'Pol," he muttered. "Stay with me."

"Jonathan." There it was again—T'Pol calling him by his first name. She slanted him a look, as if sensing his confusion, and to his surprise, she smiled, a little ruefully. There she was, lying incapacitated in bed, and she was trying to reassure him. "I was stung by an...an insect. I'm allergic to it. I couldn't get to my medication in the...in the basket." She licked her lips, and Archer fed her a sip of water from a glass he had waiting. "Jonathan. I'll be...I'll be fine."

"I should get help." Archer set down the glass.

"Get...get Doctor Williams." T'Pol's eyelids fluttered. Her words slurred. "Jonathan. It's all right. You're safe. Trust me."

_Trust T'Pol. You're safe._ She'd repeated the words in the note, which somehow made the note he'd apparently written to himself more believable. Obviously she was in no position to explain. She looked better, but although she was no longer struggling for breath, her breathing was quick and shallow.

He had to get help. How could he do that? Archer contemplated going next door, to one of the other ramshackle structures, but immediately dismissed it. He needed to contact _Enterprise._ He needed Doctor Phlox, not Doctor Williams, whoever that was. "Communicator," he muttered. With only minor qualms, he patted T'Pol down, hoping he'd find a communicator in a pocket. No luck—no pockets. A quick search through her room revealed little more than a tendency to neatness that did not at all surprise him. "Think," he muttered. She'd want it handy, like the Vulcan medipen. He turned back to the drawer and tossed it. He finally discovered the communicator tucked inside the quilted box he'd found earlier.

He flipped the device open, relieved to have found something familiar. Now he'd get some answers.

"Archer to _Enterprise,_" he snapped. "Come in, _Enterprise._"

He grinned when he heard Hoshi Sato's voice, sounding surprised. This was more like it. He may not know what was going on, but if the _Enterprise_ was at hand, everything could be solved. His people were the best. "_Enterprise_ here. Captain Archer?"

"Requesting immediate medical assistance." Archer figured he'd stick to business first, then figure out what was going on. "Subcommander T'Pol's been stung by some kind of insect. I injected her with a medipen, but she needs a doctor. Send Travis down with Doctor Phlox, and tell him to bring his black bag."

Was it his imagination, or did Sato hesitate? But her voice came back, calm and professional. "Doctor Phlox is unavailable. I've contacted Doctor Williams on the planet. She'll be there shortly."

Doctor Williams—the name T'Pol had mentioned. "I'd really prefer Phlox," Archer insisted. "He's familiar with Vulcan physiology and her unique medical needs. Make him available."

"Cap'n," a new voice said, and Archer heaved a sigh of relief: Trip Tucker. "Doctor Phlox is on Denobula." Archer blinked. Denobula? He'd seen Phlox this morning, at the staff meeting. "Listen, I'm sending Malcolm down. He can spend the day with you, until T'Pol is back on her feet." What? Archer frowned. This made no sense. He opened his mouth to demand an explanation, but Tucker's voice continued, overriding him. "Cap'n, everything's all right. _Enterprise_ is fine, the doctor knows just what to do, and T'Pol will be fine in a day or two."

"You're acting like this has happened before." Archer looked down at T'Pol. Her skin looked translucent, and her chest rose and fell quickly.

"It has," Tucker said, to Archer's amazement. "The last thing you remember is the anomaly, the explosion, and T'Pol's leg getting stuck under some of the wall. Cap'n, that was seven years ago. The long and the short of it is, you have no short-term memory. That's why Phlox is on Denobula. He's looking for a cure."

Archer stood rooted to the floor. _No short-term memory._ That was why he looked older. That was why he wasn't on board _Enterprise._

_Today, don't ask any questions._

That was why he'd written himself a note.

"I don't—" he started, not sure what he would or could say. Oh, the questions. He probably asked the same ones, over and over again—if all this was true, that is—if it all wasn't some kind of elaborate hoax, some kind of psychological mind game...

Tucker continued, his response eerily echoing Archer's train of thought. "You've got to trust me, Cap'n. Malcolm can answer all your questions when he gets there. This isn't a trick. It's true."

"Jonathan?" an unfamiliar woman's voice called as a door crashed open. "Lucy Williams here."

Archer lifted the communicator to his lips. "Trip, the doctor's here. Archer out." He didn't wait for a response. Instead, he gently shut the communicator and returned it to the soft box just as a harried-looking woman of about fifty entered.

"Sorry about banging the door like that—it still sticks. How is she?" Doctor Williams set down an incongruously cheery red tote and began digging through it, all business. "Last time this happened, she was out for two days."

"She's breathing better since I injected her with that." Archer indicated the medipen. "I found her out in the garden. I'm not sure how long she was there." He remembered the state of the kitchen. She'd probably just stepped out.

Williams nodded as she stuck the ends of an old-fashioned stethoscope into her ears. "T'Pol needs to be more careful. Avi thinks he's found a way to get rid of the see-ums—something to do with generating a mild electrical field, to mess up their navigational system. But it isn't a big priority because T'Pol's the only person in the community who's allergic—it's that green Vulcan blood of hers."

She knew them, it struck Archer: Williams banged the door when she came in, knew right where to go, sounded affectionate. "See-ums?" he managed.

"Like no-see-ums, only you can see 'em." Williams grinned as she leaned over T'Pol. "Get it?"

Archer watched her for a moment as she tended to T'Pol. "Doctor, can I ask you a question?"

His apprehension must have sounded in his voice, because the look she shot him had pity in it. "I'm not sure what Captain Tucker told you. But let me try to anticipate it." She gently touched his arm. "You have no short-term memory. You live here with T'Pol, and she takes care of you."

Could it be true? "T'Pol—she answers my questions," Archer said slowly. _What happened? Where's Enterprise? Where's Porthos? Why am I on a planet? How much time has passed? _"The same questions. Every day."

Williams nodded sympathetically. She understood how he felt. She'd probably seen it before, hundreds of times. "I've got work to do. Can you wait outside? Is _Enterprise_ sending someone? Hoshi?"

"Malcolm Reed," Archer admitted. He would rather have had Hoshi Sato. Sato was patient and kind. She'd been a teacher. But Malcolm Reed—the way he felt about Reed—he didn't want to have to face that on top of everything else. Did this happen every time too? Did he spend his time with Reed being careful to remain professional, to not show his feelings?

"Malcolm—excellent." Williams fluttered her fingers at him, indicating he should shoo. "T'Pol's in good hands. I've been treating her for years. Don't worry. She's not going to die or anything."

"Good," Archer said inadequately. He couldn't think of anything to say. If this was a conspiracy, it was the best he'd seen. Wasn't it easier to think that everyone was telling the truth? "Good."

He left the door open behind him and stood for an uncertain moment in the kitchen. He supposed he should feel hungry for breakfast, but he wasn't. His sense of impending doom had been trumped. There was no conspiracy, no aliens, no space-time rift. There was only the distance of time. Why in the world would T'Pol be living with him here—wherever _here_ was—answering the same questions, day in and day out?

And Reed was coming.

Out in the garden, he lifted a hand to a neighbor who called out, "Morning, Jonathan," as though they knew each other. Well, the man probably knew him. Archer would be introduced to him over and over again. Every time they met would be, to Archer, like the first time they met.

But he _remembered._ There was no gap. Everything had just happened. He could remember it with distinct clarity. He'd woken up, had breakfast, run a staff meeting, had a subspace conversation with Admiral Forrest—

_Stop._

At the garden, Archer methodically picked up the spilled vegetables, examining each minutely before he set it in the righted basket: red peppers, beans, peas in pods, zucchini—of course zucchini. When he'd been a boy, it had been about the only thing he'd been able to grow when he'd tried his hand at gardening—zucchini and, on the flower end, marigolds. Good thing he was a much better ship's captain. Only without any long-term memory, he couldn't be much of anything.

He lifted the basket, and there, in the crushed stone paving the path, lay a familiar bright yellow pen with black Vulcan writing on it: another medipen. T'Pol hadn't seen it, or been able to reach it in time. It had fallen out of the basket when she dropped it and had been concealed. He placed it among the vegetables, then set the basket on a bench in the garden. He walked a slow circuit, admiring the way flowers had been tucked in with the vegetables. The sun seemed hot, even though it was still early in the day. In a corner, among twining pea plants, a white marker thrust up out of the rich dirt, slightly crooked. He pushed aside plants and wasn't surprised to see a dog bone etched on it. No name had been inscribed.

"Porthos." Archer touched the bone. "Oh, Porthos." The dog bed under his window stood there only to reassure him, a symbol of normalcy. Porthos had probably died long ago. His grave was covered with twining vines with orange flowers.

He sat heavily on the garden bench, next to the basket, the captain of the first warp 5 starship in Starfleet, and enjoyed the sun.

_Today, don't ask any questions._

_Trust T'Pol._

_You're safe._

He wasn't surprised when a voice said tentatively, "Captain."

"Lieutenant Reed," Archer said, turning to face him. He shaded his eyes with a hand. Reed looked older and sported a goatee—that was new. What wasn't new was the wrench in his heart at seeing his armory officer. He'd felt that wrench ever since the incident more than a year ago when Reed had been pinned to the hull of the ship, ever since he'd realized how much Reed meant to him—ever since he'd known how he'd felt, and realized that Reed would never permit it. "I have a question for you."

Reed nodded, guarded, as always. "Of course, sir."

_Of course._ No doubt Archer always had questions, he thought bitterly. Archer dug through his pocket, extended a slip of paper to Reed. "Today, don't ask any questions," Reed read aloud. He looked up and gestured at the small bench. "May I, sir?"

"Please, Lieutenant." Archer corrected himself as Reed sat next to him, legs brushing, giving Archer a better view of Reed's pips. Of course Reed had been promoted. "Excuse me. Commander. First officer of the _Enterprise_?"

"Yes, sir," Reed said. He held the paper up. Archer's heart twisted as he looked across the gap of years. He'd always known that there was nothing to be done about the way he felt, nothing at all. He'd chosen the one person whose sense of propriety and duty meant he couldn't reciprocate. "You do this every once in a while, sir. It's a way to...to try to relieve T'Pol."

Archer understood what Reed meant. He couldn't imagine how wearying it would be, responding to the same questions every day. "You mean, so she has a day where she doesn't have to answer my questions."

"Yes." Reed returned the paper to Archer. His fingers lingered against Archer's. Archer thought he knew why. _Pity._ He didn't like pity from Reed. Archer looked down at the words and understood _today_ now: just for today, don't ask questions. Just for one day, give T'Pol some relief from endless repetition. _Just for today._

"Does it work?"

"Not really, no." Reed unzipped a pocket and pulled out something round and smooth. "Sometimes you try to keep a diary, but you almost always end up ripping out the pages and destroying them." Archer nodded, remembering the missing pages from the notebook. What would be the point? He'd be writing messages to someone whose first thought would not be belief and acceptance, no matter the handwriting. "And sometimes you do this," Reed continued, showing Archer a small recording device. "You make recordings to remind yourself of what you've done, what you've learned. That works better than the notes. But mostly, T'Pol answers your questions. This one has a session on it, if you want to listen." He extended it.

Archer nodded. Mixed with the usual twist of desire was sympathy for Reed, saddled with an out-of-touch captain. How did Reed handle it? Rank and protocol had defined their relationship before. That no longer existed. "And you've been dispatched to answer my questions today. I'm sure you have better things to do, Lieu—Commander." He plucked the device from the warmth of Reed's hand.

"Not at all, sir." Reed looked at him steadily, somehow intense, as if he were trying to communicate with Archer on some level beyond the verbal, as if he knew what Archer was thinking, as the two of them sat close together on the small bench, legs touching because there was no room.

Reed knew how Archer felt—knew that Archer wanted him. He knew because Archer had told him, soon after the minefield incident, and he'd been rebuffed. _I'm so sorry _and _I can't_ and _You're my commanding officer._ Archer had taken strange comfort in what Reed hadn't said: Reed hadn't told Archer how he felt about him. Things had been awkward for a few weeks until they'd decided to pretend it never happened.

But now? Had things changed between them? Reed's eyes, his intensity—

He was reading into it, hoping. Again. He said, picking up the thread of their conversation, "Let me guess. You take turns coming down and taking care of me, spelling T'Pol."

Reed inclined his head in assent. "Indeed. People you know—Captain Tucker, Lieutenant Sato, and of course myself."

"Because Doctor Phlox is on Denobula," Archer guessed. "Where's Travis? Didn't he shuttle you down?"

From the look on Reed's face, bad news was forthcoming. "I beamed down. The transporter has been upgraded since you...since you left the captaincy of the _Enterprise._ Travis was killed in an attack some years ago."

"Ah," Archer said, thinking of Travis Mayweather's smiling face at the staff meeting that morning, Tucker's haste to get the meeting over with as quickly as possible, T'Pol's measured responses to Archer's questions about a survey field they planned to set up so they could run some scans. _It had just happened that morning._ Travis Mayweather dead? It didn't seem real. "Maybe we could skip the question-and-answer session, Malcolm. Why don't you just answer all my questions, but without me asking them."

"Of course, sir." Malcolm wiped his hands on his pants, the first sign of uncomfortableness Archer had seen him betray. "I'll leave out the explanations and just hit the high points, shall I?"

"Please." Archer nodded.

"Although _Enterprise_ found the Xindi weapon, it had already been deployed. Earth was destroyed," Reed said baldly, and Archer felt it like a blow in the stomach. He leaned forward, forearms on his legs, as he tried to catch his breath. Reed continued inexorably—how many times had he had to speak these words, again tell the story of what had happened, relive it? "The Xindi sought human ships and attempted to destroy them. Eventually we all found one another and banded together. This settlement—the last of humanity—is the result. You're on the fifth planet in the Ceti Alpha system, far from the Expanse. _Enterprise _now offers security to the remains of humanity and remains in orbit around this planet. Charles Tucker captains the ship now, and I'm the first officer."

He paused. Archer hung his head, trying to process the information. They'd lost. They'd _lost?_

Reed must have mistaken Archer's lack of response as a cue to go on, not as the utter shock it was, because he continued. "The last thing you remember is the anomaly. It hit you directly, we think, and you became infected with some kind of parasite, the nature of which is still in question. We do understand that it exists outside of our space-time. That parasite inhabits your brain, and its actions somehow don't permit you to form long-term memories. Doctor Phlox has become—well, I suppose he's become obsessed. He returned to Denobula in an attempt to find a cure. We are in touch with him. Currently, there is no technology that can help, but Phlox is pursuing some very, er, interesting lines of research, and he remains hopeful."

"Hopeful," Archer grated. He could do no more than parrot words back. Mayweather was dead. Earth had been destroyed. The Xindi hunted them down. _They'd lost._

"Quite hopeful, yes, sir. Sorry. I know it's quite a shock."

"That's—that's an understatement," Archer managed. He couldn't breathe. Shock didn't feel like getting punched in the stomach. He'd prefer the dead blankness of shock, in fact, to feeling ill, to feeling as though he needed to do something, when he could do nothing but sit on a garden bench with a man he'd been trying for more than a year to stop wanting. "Maybe it's better to forget. When will I forget?" _When will I have to learn all of this again?_

"Your memories fade after sleep, or, if you remain awake, after about eight hours," Reed told him. He pressed his shoulder against Archer's, an attempt at reassurance, comfort. "At your request, we've timed it."

"Ah." At his request. "And how does it make you feel, Commander Reed, to have to tell me this over and over?"

He thought Reed would give a professional, measured nonanswer, well rehearsed like the story he'd just told of death and destruction and the world ending, but he didn't. Reed hesitated before he spoke, as if searching for words. "I have all the answers by heart now." Reed faced Archer, suddenly candid and accessible in a way that he had never been. Archer had become used to a closed-in Reed, someone who relied on protocol to a degree that Archer disapproved of, because he thought it made Reed inflexible, less effective. But this Reed wasn't his subordinate. Archer was no longer his captain. "I've said it so often that the horror of it should leave me. I was there, you know—we all were. We saw the Xindi weapon destroy Earth. And yet it fades. I forget. Until you ask, and I see how it affects you. It's new, every time. Your reaction—it's how we should all feel. We shouldn't forget. You help us remember."

That was irony if he'd ever heard it: by forgetting, he kept memory alive. By his incessant questions, the repeated answers, he engraved events in people's minds that otherwise may have faded to bearable levels, just as Archer had become able to tolerate Reed's presence after their conversation in sick bay, when Archer had laid himself bare and Reed had said no?

What was a man, other than the sum of all his memories and experience? What was he now? A man who'd stopped learning and growing? A man stuck in time, his life forever truncated at the point he'd been struck by the anomaly, a personality in stasis?

No. Surely there must be something at the core, some kind of personality or self-ness, some part of him that just _was._

He asked the next question because he could only imagine what T'Pol's world had become: the primary caregiver of a panicky man used to being in charge. "And T'Pol? Why does she do what she does?"

"Ah." Reed gave a half-shrug. "You saved her life that day. She feels she owes you hers. Some people...some people theorize that she has fallen in love with you."

Archer raised his eyebrows. "Has she?" he asked baldly. He couldn't imagine it.

"I've no idea. Perhaps. We see very little of her—of either of you, actually. We had some...incidents while you were on board _Enterprise,_ so for your own safety, we had to move you here." Reed suddenly looked up, alert as always to movement Archer hadn't noticed, and Archer, following his gaze, spotted a flash of red. "We're in the garden, Lucy," Reed called, and a moment later, the doctor entered.

"There you are." Williams wore her bright tote over one shoulder, clearly ready to head out. "I prefer to keep T'Pol under observation, so I'm taking her to the clinic. Jake is helping her over there now. I think I can return her tomorrow afternoon. Unless, Commander, you'd rather have her aboard _Enterprise_?"

Reed shook his head. "Not at all. I'll leave her in your capable hands."

"Then I'll contact Hoshi with an update." Williams turned to Archer. "Jonathan, how are you doing?" She reached out and briefly clasped his hand. "I know this must all be very confusing for you."

"As well as can be expected," Archer decided. "Finding out that most of humanity has been wiped out was a shock."

"As it should be. If you need me for anything, anything at all, I'm the first number on the com panel in the kitchen. It's marked 'emergency.'" Archer nodded his thanks, and Williams shaded her eyes as she turned to Reed. "Malcolm, just holler if you need me. I'll be in touch if you need to know anything about T'Pol's condition. Jonathan. Malcolm."

Archer watched her red tote bob as she left. "I guess I know her." He liked her. He imagined they'd shared dinner together more than once—he, Lucy Williams, and T'Pol. They'd swapped stories and laughed. Of course, he couldn't remember any of it. No doubt Williams knew a lot about him, even as he forgot and forgot and forgot.

Reed shrugged. "How well do you know anybody?" he joked, and Archer managed a faint smile.

"How well do you know me?" Archer asked. He looked down at their legs, pressed together. Did he always try to remain professional with Reed, because of that conversation a year ago—no, make that eight years ago—where Reed had said he couldn't? "Do you call me Jonathan? Are we...are we friends?" He touched Reed's knee lightly, careful to make it neutral. "Should I read into this?" Because he was. Earth gone, humanity squatting on a dusty planet, yet the initial shock had faded and now there was just Archer and Reed, together in a garden, sitting so close together that they touched.

Reed turned his head, as if to deflect the question. The light hit his hair, making the strands appear almost luminous. Unlike Archer, he had no gray. "I know quite a lot about you, sir. I know about Margaret Mullen, for example. I call you Jonathan when you invite me to. I wouldn't say we're friends." He didn't answer Archer's last question. But he touched Archer's leg, fingers sliding intimately toward the inner thigh. He left his hand there. It was its own kind of answer.

Archer pondered the touch as he considered Reed's words, surprised at the reference to Margaret Mullen. He'd proposed to her right before he'd shipped out, but she'd said no. He'd been devastated. Nobody on board _Enterprise_ knew that story, including Trip Tucker. Reed's mentioning her name was a kind of code, a shorthand for _We've talked about things that are important to you. _In the years since the accident, surely he'd told Reed that his feelings hadn't faded, because that had become his most important secret. But what would it matter, telling stories, when Archer would forget anyway? Reed would come to know Archer, but Archer would live in an eternal present, living a single day anew every time he woke up.

Archer cleared his throat, because Reed's hand lay like a brand on his leg, the touch intimate and telling. "Well, I wish you'd call me Jonathan." He'd always wished that. "I'm obviously not your commanding officer anymore." That had been Reed's sticking point, a year ago—all those years ago. _He'd never said he didn't want to. He always said he couldn't._ "And if we're not friends, what are we?" Did Reed's touch mean what he hoped it meant? Archer dared to clasp Reed's wrist, punctuating his words. _Are we lovers?_

"Ah. Well. That's the question, isn't it?"

Now Reed looked directly at him, as if accepting a challenge Archer had made. When he took one of Archer's hands in both of his, the despair Archer felt over Reed's revelations dropped away, and instead, he felt a frisson of joyful panic, familiar even though the distance of his memory of a year. He'd done the same thing when he'd told Reed how he'd felt, in sick bay, after Reed had been treated after the minefield incident. And he'd felt the same way, too: hopeful, and terrified. In sick bay, Reed on a biobed, he'd taken one of Reed's hands in both of his and told him exactly how he felt.

Reed continued, "It depends on your emotional state. Sometimes we're colleagues. Sometimes we're...sometimes we're more than friends." Unable to speak, unable to form thoughts or words, Archer's hand convulsed, a visceral response to Reed's implication, and Reed lifted it to his mouth. "Much more than friends," Reed added, stroking away the faint wet of the kiss from the back of Archer's hand with his thumb. He reached up and touched Archer's cheek, then slid his fingers around Archer's neck. "I think that today, we're more than friends," he said quietly as he draw Archer's head down.

Archer, unprepared for this despite Reed's hints, could only manage a strangled, "I'm not—I don't think—" Then he tasted Reed, wholly unfamiliar and warm, and not at all tentative. It was the last that confirmed Reed's implication. _We've done this before._ But to Archer, it was all new—the pressure of Reed's lips, the touch of his tongue, the warmth that raced down his body. He'd wanted this for so long that the wanting had become a kind of dull pain in the background, somehow easy to ignore for all that it never went away. Now, that wanting roared to the forefront, incinerating all the fear and despair he'd felt since he'd awoken.

Did this happen every time? he wondered as he and Reed leaned closer at the same moment. Did he _want_ this much every time?

_Today, don't ask any questions._

He slid his arms around Reed, awkward because they were sitting next to each other, and kissed Reed back. Reed's goatee felt silky when Archer rubbed his cheek against it. He tasted Reed's skin, lingering at the softness in front of his ears because he liked the smooth texture and he liked the noise Reed made in his throat when he did it. Under it all was a clean soap scent, though he wanted to smell Reed's sweat. Explosions of sensation as Reed kissed and nibbled warred with overarching desire.

"Jonathan."

Archer pulled back and opened his eyes.

"We're in the middle of a garden," Reed continued, pulling back slightly. "What will the neighbors say?" Archer had never seen that look on Reed's face: eyes half-closed, moist lips curved into a sensuous smile. "We should go inside." Archer regretfully let Reed go and followed him as he started for the house, only belatedly remembering to get the basket. The sight of the medipen made him remember T'Pol, lying on the garden path, unconscious. His world had ended, and then begun, in the space of two hours. "Shall I cook us some breakfast?"

"I'm not hungry." Archer smiled as Reed expertly opened the sticking door, then followed him in. "I guess I should fix that door."

"You always say that." Reed watched Archer set the basket onto the countertop, next to the shining blue bowl. Archer's name dropped from Reed's lips as though he'd called him _Jonathan _a thousand times before: "Jonathan, I know how new all of this is to you. We don't have to—you're—you're vulnerable, and I—my feelings—"

Archer spoke over Reed, an attempt at reassurance. "It's all right, Malcolm. When we—I've wanted it for a really, really long time."

"I know."

"I just mean that it's not too much. On top of everything else, it's maybe the only good thing that's happened to me today."

"It's not always like this." Reed gently shifted the blue bowl. Archer realized that Reed was nervous and needed something to do with his hands. "I imagine what you do with T'Pol, you know. I imagine you have a quiet breakfast, and you garden, or go for a walk, or talk to the settlement's children. You have a nice dinner with Lucy or—or any of your other friends. Entire weeks, or months, when she has you, and not me."

"How often do I see you?" Archer asked tentatively.

Reed's answer was an ambiguous, "Not often enough."

"Well, then, we'd better make use of the time while we have it." Archer turned. "I'll be in the bedroom. I wish you'd join me." He didn't look behind as he left.

Archer undressed and sat on his unmade bed in an unfamiliar room decorated with familiar objects. He found that he was trembling slightly. All of it—all of it overwhelmed him. T'Pol ill, Tucker captain of the _Enterprise,_ humanity defeated by the Xindi and hunted down, no memories, no _authority, _people's pity, the same questions asked over and over, and all of it had retreated at Reed's touch. He needed that: the burning away of doubt and uncertainty by desire.

"Let me, Malcolm," he said when Reed entered a minute later. Reed dropped his hands, and Archer undid his uniform, gently touching the pips that marked his new rank. "How long have you had this?" he asked, brushing Reed's goatee with the back of his fingers.

"Two years," Reed said. He stroked it and smiled. "Do you like it?" _Do you like it?_ Yet Reed asked as though he didn't know, as though the question was to be asked and answered for the very first time.

"Take off your shoes," Archer ordered. "Yes, I like it very much."

Reed bent, undid his shoes, stepped out of them. "Good," he said as Archer slid the heavy uniform off his shoulders. "Good," he repeated a little breathlessly, freeing his arms as Archer reached underneath the regulation blue undershirt and began stroking.

Reed's soft skin covered ropy muscle. Archer felt it flex as Reed helped him take off the undershirt. He buried his face in the crook of Reed's shoulder and kissed his way down, shoving down clothing as he went, judging what Reed liked by his response: the hitch of breath when he pulled Reed against him and rubbed, the sigh of pleasure when he licked a nipple, the moan when he rubbed his cheek against Reed's. He hooked his fingers around Reed's briefs and lifted them over Reed's straining erection, freeing him. Reed kicked aside clothing as Archer knelt. He pulled back Reed's foreskin and took Reed in his mouth all at once, sliding his tongue along Reed's length, tasting him while Reed wound his fingers in Archer's hair.

"Jonathan," Reed groaned when he realized Archer didn't want to play. "You shouldn't—I can't—"

Archer lifted his head. "Hard," he ordered. _Fast. _He needed to feel Reed, that most controlled of men, losing control, just as he needed the reassurance of Reed's desire for him after _I can't_ and _no._ He descended again, holding Reed steady with one hand, sucking hard as Reed began to thrust, first slowly and luxuriously, then faster. His breathing moved from ragged gasps to low moans, fingers tight in Archer's hair, letting Archer give him what he needed, until he gasped a warning and flooded Archer's mouth. Archer had to make a conscious effort to gentle his mouth. His own erection smoldered from the sensation Reed in his mouth.

When he stood, Reed immediately backed up, until Archer could push him onto the bed. "Top shelf, in the box," Reed said. "I know what you want," he added as Archer, hand on Reed's chest, looked down at him. "Tell me how you feel." It came out a challenge. He was still breathing hard.

"Hot," Archer said. Hot, and everything that implied: arousal, anger. "Out of control." He searched for words. "If I'm not captain of the _Enterprise,_ then I'm nothing." _What am I, now that I live only in the moment?_

Reed nodded, as if he knew. Of course he knew. Archer doubted he could surprise Reed. Reed could remember their conversations, could remember what Archer liked. "Top shelf, in the box," Reed repeated.

Archer felt Reed's eyes on him, hungry and apprising, as he got the box and depressed the small button that popped the lid. Inside was a bottle of lube and two lengths of thick, soft white rope. He stared, incredulous, then looked up at Reed, who shoved the pillows off the bed and extended his body, raising his arms above his head in clear invitation.

"Tell yourself it's my idea," Reed said. He held Archer's eyes. In that moment, Archer wanted it so much that he felt momentarily dizzy. "Tell yourself I enjoy it."

Archer set the box by the bed, plucked out a rope. "Do you?"

"Of course." Reed took the rope from Archer and looped it into a double knot, slid his hand through one end. "Or tell yourself it's a metaphor for power and control." Reed's expressive voice, with the distinctive English accent Archer loved, fell in pitch: a tone of a fellow conspirator. "Or possibly admit to me that you've always wanted this but never dared act on it. Whatever you like."

"You know me," Archer said, because he had indeed always wanted it, and clearly, he'd told Reed. He leaned over and found a place on the bed frame to hook the restraint. His fingers, which had trembled before as he waited for Reed, were now steady as he tied Reed's other hand. _Today, don't ask any questions._ Right now, Archer didn't have any questions. He had answers: trust, and desire, and Reed's knowledge of him. Reed wound his hands around the slack of the rope and pulled, testing the hold.

"I know you," Reed agreed. Unspoken words resonated in the small room: _Better than anyone, because we share this._

Archer straddled Reed, one leg on either side of Reed's body, and stroked himself to full hardness. Reed's skin felt smooth under the head of his cock as he wiped it against Reed's body, leaving small trails of wet. He liked the way it looked, his hard purple-red length against the topography of Reed's muscles. When he reared forward, pressing himself against Reed's mouth, Reed pulled against the restraints to leverage himself up as he took Archer in. Exquisite wet enveloped him, but Archer preferred the erotic view to the sensation. Because of the awkward position, they had to go slowly, and Reed couldn't take much of Archer in. It meant they had to take their time, building pleasure slowly, until Reed collapsed back, unable to continue holding himself up.

Archer took that as his cue to learn Reed's body. He kissed and stroked, noticing textures, hollows, scars he hadn't focused on before, when he'd undressed Reed. Reed's body lay long and outstretched under him, like an offering that said _anything you want to do_ and _take me. _His clean scent had morphed into the musk Archer had wanted when they'd kissed in the garden: now there was sweat mixed with an aroma unique to Reed, a scent that complemented the taste of his skin. Pleased twitches and _mmms_ of pleasure escalated, until Reed dug his heels into the bed and arched his body, cock hard again, seeking more sensation, his body expressing a kind of desperate yearning Archer hadn't imagined. When Reed pulled against the restraints, panting, his upper body flexed, and Archer had to reach out and touch straining shoulders and biceps. Reed had to rely on Archer for his pleasure.

"Please," Reed gasped when Archer took Reed in his hand and rubbed.

Archer slicked himself with lube, watching Reed watch him. He nudged Reed's legs up, granting him access, and gently explored Reed's entrance, playing with the strong pucker of muscle until Reed relaxed and he could insert his fingers. Archer pushed Reed's legs back and sheathed himself to the hilt in a single smooth movement. Tightness and molten heat surrounded him, a sensation so powerful that he had to pause before he could begin thrusting. He steadied himself with one hand on Reed's chest and another on his leg, moving quickly and strongly until he brushed the edge of orgasm, then slowing down so the sensation could slide down to a bearable level. Reed rocked slightly, trying to drive Archer deeper, struggling against the restraints as he tried to shove himself against Archer to push himself over the edge.

"I want to watch you come while I'm inside you," Archer told Reed. Archer wanted to see Reed lose control while Archer was still hard, still thrusting into him. The idea of Reed coming because Archer had made it inevitable—Archer found it intensely arousing. He slid his hand down Reed's chest and stomach to his cock. "Hard and fast," he said as he began to roughly stroke in time to his powerful shoves.

Reed made an incoherent noise as his body tightened and flexed, unable to move because of the restraints and Archer's weight. Reed had to rely on Archer for satisfaction. Archer paused at the top of each stroke to feel Reed trembling around him, feeling the power he had to make Reed gasp and moan—and then, at last, feeling the power he had to make Reed writhe as he came. Archer rode him through it, hard and rhythmic, feeling Reed's orgasm from the inside as Reed's body squeezed and from the outside as Reed's cock jerked in his hand. When Reed relaxed and opened sated, sleepy eyes, Archer let all semblance of self-control go: he deepened his strokes, the precipice of orgasm looming closer in Reed's tightness, until he felt the searing heat. He pulled out of Reed's body and pressed his cock against Reed's just as he shot long stripes of white across Reed's wet stomach and chest.

He had enough self-control to collapse to Reed's side so he could help Reed loosen one of his hands. He lay back and panted as Reed freed himself, then lay next to him in the too-small bed. "Don't let me fall asleep," he murmured. "I don't want to forget this."

"No," Reed agreed, kissing him with a hint of the desperation that Archer had come to know: Reed, writhing under him, saying _please;_ Reed, growing hard at his touch; Reed, wanting him as much as he'd ever wanted Reed. "Here." Reed leaned over to grab the pillows off the floor. He adjusted the two of them so he reclined against the pillows, Archer between his legs. Archer could feel the stickiness on Reed's chest, still warm but rapidly cooling. Reed gently clasped Archer in his arms, occasionally nuzzling the side of his head and kissing him as Archer's body came back under his control. _You're safe,_ the posture said.

After a long, drowsy silence, Archer said, "You can tell me anything, you know. I won't remember."

"Sometimes I do," Reed said lightly.

He wanted to know this Reed, the one who wasn't under his command, the one who wanted Archer. "Tell me about yourself, then. Yourself now. The first officer on board the starship _Enterprise._"

Reed brushed Archer's arm with a hand, entwined their fingers, let go. Wasn't that like them? Coming together, letting go? Over and over again?

"Well, the first officer on board the starship _Enterprise_ is known for his devotion to duty and his tendency to go by the book," Reed began. At Archer's chuckle, he added ironically, "I can see you're surprised. Yet he's relaxed in the past few years. I daresay you wouldn't recognize him. He's been known to crack jokes while actually on the bridge. Yet true to form, he remains obsessed with weaponry and has a truly astounding collection of ancient Earth pistols." He shifted slightly. Archer's larger bulk didn't seem to trouble him. When he spoke again, Archer felt Reed's breath against his hair. "He doesn't date, which surprises no one. All efforts to draw him in have failed, and no one tries anymore. And he's all right with that, because...because eighty-seven times—counting today—he's been with the only person he's ever wanted since he set foot on board _Enterprise_ ten years ago."

Reed had wanted him longer than he'd wanted Reed? Archer leaned his head back, overcome. He hadn't known—of course he hadn't known, because Reed would never have permitted it.

"I sometimes talk with Lucy about it," Reed said matter-of-factly, switching to first person. "I wonder why I keep doing this to myself—seducing you, or making you seduce me. I wonder why I don't want to find someone else, why—why _this _is what I need. Sometimes I stand back and play the part I played while you were captain—untouchable professional colleague. You've told me how you've felt. And of course I've told you how I feel. We've exchanged stories. You tie me up and pretend you're in control. Oh, and you've professed love. It's always different, and it's always the same. I can't not want you. I've tried and I can't stop."

"Malcolm," Archer grated. _Stop._ It was as if Reed had slapped him. Reed knew Archer's feelings only too well. Because everything was different, Archer would tell him, over and over again, each time new, each time tentative, each time expecting to be rejected: _I told you that day in sick bay that I loved you and wanted you, and I never stopped._ He could tie Reed up and fuck him, but it was just a play at control. Because Reed had knowledge (because Reed had memory), he was the one in control.

Reed didn't stop. "The first time I did it, I felt terrible, like I'd hurt a child—all for my own gain. I can manipulate you, you know. I've gotten quite good at it, to my shame. But _you don't remember._ Every time I visit, I'm a different person, and you're always the same. I ask myself, if you got your memory back, would I let you in, knowing how you feel, and how I feel, and what we could be together?" Archer closed his eyes, because he knew what Reed was going to say next: "And I rather think I wouldn't. I rather think I'd prefer to have Jonathan Archer for a single day, over and over again."

Archer thought about that, about Reed holding himself apart, about Reed only letting Archer in when Reed was in control. The game in bed was just the latest in a long string of seduction games, of giving Archer what he thought he wanted because ultimately, it was meaningless, just as anything they did together had no meaning because Archer couldn't remember. By now, Reed knew him better than he knew himself.

Even knowing it meaningless, it still hurt. "Why?" Archer asked. "Why would you want this—this broken version of me?"

"Because you're the captain," Reed said simply. "You will always be the captain, the man you were before Earth was destroyed. The man I couldn't have, when I wanted him."

"A man stuck in the past." Archer's voice betrayed his anger.

"Yes."

Archer hitched his body forward. Was Reed deliberately trying to anger him? "I think I need to be alone now."

"Of course," Reed said without hesitation. His hands slid down Archer's back, sensuous despite his words and matter-of-fact tone. "I'll be in the shower." He got out of bed, awkwardly moving around Archer, foot brushing Archer's shoulder. He leaned down for his uniform and padded out.

Reed—still difficult, still opaque. What kind of man would, by his own admission, exploit a brain-damaged person? Yet how could it be otherwise, when Archer could never remember their time together? He could go to sleep and forget. He'd sleep, and in an hour or so, he'd awaken, ravenous, and he would remember nothing. Perhaps the rumpled bedclothes, the white ropes still tied to the bed, the scent of semen, the heavy feeling of his sated body would hint at what he'd been up to. Reed would come in, clean from the shower, hair still damp, and kiss him, and the questions would start again: _where am I? where's Enterprise? where's Porthos?_

"Damn it," he muttered. He didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to forget. He took refuge in mundanities: he wiped himself off with the sheet trailing on the floor, then pulled on his pants. In a pocket, he found the smooth, round voice recorder Reed had handed him. That's right—Reed had told him that sometimes he made recordings to remind himself of things that had happened.

With the sound of the shower whistling in the background, Archer pressed the play button. _Earth was destroyed,_ he heard himself say, despair in his voice. _We lost and the Xindi won. The settlement has 54,000 people. I have no short-term memory. Porthos is dead. T'Pol's favorite vegetable is snap peas. Trip Tucker is captain of the Enterprise now. Barry and Linda came over for lunch; Barry is a teacher and Linda is a computer expert. I have a tracking chip embedded in my shoulder so I can be found if I get lost—just stay in the same place and let them find me. Today I weeded the garden; tomorrow I'm supposed to deadhead. Hoshi's coming to visit._

Archer fast-forwarded, hearing his own voice, stopping at random to play a snippet, then fast-forwarding again. Sometimes he sounded weary or sad; sometimes he sounded matter-of-fact. Trivia. It was all meaningless trivia. Who were Barry and Linda? Did he cook enough to know that he should fix T'Pol snap peas? And if he actually needed information, how was he supposed to find the one useful bit among all of this?

_I really feel bad for T'Pol. I don't know how she can put up with it, answering the same questions over and over again, day in and day out. I wish we could have a day together where she didn't have to explain that I'm not the victim of some big conspiracy._

Archer knew the result of that impulse: a note propped up against the clock, the first thing he'd see when he woke up: _Today, don't ask any questions._ After another minute of fruitless listening, gleaning bits of contextless information that meant nothing to him or that jolted him because it provided information about someone he knew, he set the device down. What struck him about the recording wasn't the information on it, but the impulse behind it: to remember, to become what he had once been. Couldn't he just be? Maybe living a day over and over was an opportunity for joy. He could meet Lucy Williams for the first time all over again, and be struck by the fact that he thought he liked her. He could kiss Reed for the first time and feel the pleasure of desire fulfilled. He could read the same mystery novel over and over again and be continually surprised at the outcome. And he could feel the repeated shock and the horror of bad news: _Earth was destroyed,_ the first item on the recording, followed by _We lost and the Xindi won._ He didn't exist in a vacuum. He would always wake up remembering a staff meeting, an explosion, T'Pol trapped under twisted metal, the anomaly rushing at him, all of it as immediate as if it just happened yesterday, because it had. And he'd think those things and feel those things, he'd have the same reactions over and over, because he was the man he was.

Archer rose and paced, his favorite way to think things through. He couldn't do anything about his condition. He couldn't make T'Pol's life easier. He couldn't absolve Reed of his sins because that absolution was necessarily meaningless; tomorrow, the transgression would be forgotten. All he could do was be the captain, the man he'd been before Earth was destroyed. It was literally all he knew how to do. He had wondered, an hour ago, two hours ago, whether there was some element at the heart of him, a self-ness that just was. There was. A Jonathan Archer who lived a new day over and over was still Jonathan Archer. He wasn't any less valuable as a man for being incapable of moving on.

And just as he was the man he was, Reed was the man he was. The core of Reed—prickly, difficult, demanding, arrogant Reed—remained the same. Added memories, experiences augmented, but did not eclipse, the man. Reed knew this about Archer; that's why he kept coming back. But he didn't recognize it about himself.

He cracked the door to the bathroom and called, "Malcolm? Can I come in?" He didn't wait for a response. Reed, still wet, hair toweled and askew, looked askance at him through a billow of steam. The tiny room was unbearably humid and hot. Archer shut the door behind him. "I was thinking about something you said," he explained to a wary-looking Reed. "You said that I was the only person you'd wanted to be with since you came on board _Enterprise._" Reed had told Archer that Archer had professed love, but Reed had apparently failed to appreciate the fact that he'd done the same. And after all, tomorrow, all would be forgiven, because today wouldn't exist. It was wonderfully freeing.

"Yes," Reed said. "But what does that have to do with—"

"Turn the water back on." Archer undid his pants. "You should probably scrub my back." He had six hours left before his memory would begin to fade—six hours to spend with Reed.

"But don't you—"

"Malcolm." Archer eyed him. "Today, don't ask any questions."


End file.
